


Psyche

by igraine1419



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fairytale of Valinor - an AU Fanfic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psyche

**Part One – Here be Monsters**

The moon is caught in the water. Sam watches it shatter and re-form again and again, riding the roiling waves bareback. Sometimes it seems the ship will catch it up, and he will be able to race his fingers through the cold beauty of it, liquid silver kissing his skin. His eyes fix upon it, the salt spray stinging and the night falling dark over the sea, absorbing into the water like drops of ink, growing and spilling, spiralling down, infinitely deep. Here be monsters, down among the depths, the stirring of their bodies warn of their coming. There are bursts of life in the darkness and the deeps. Some other ship might not ride out the swaying pitch of their fathomless dancing, but this ship is different – for it is elven made and light as a feather, carrying no burden, for they are the last the leave – the shipwright and the hobbit, his eyes yearning for the moon like a child. 

Pale faced, Samwise awaits the dawn. He is old and his body aches, but his soul is elated and it leaps like the hare in the pasture, as he watches the gathering, glistening rain streaking the sky with rainbows overhead where the water lies still as glass. 

Gathering himself, he stands at the prow, his fingers curving around the graceful neck of the carved swan, staring into the darkness and wondering if this is the end of the world. Sam watches how the water seems to draw them down and he is prepared that he might be facing his death this night and holds his breath, hope – nothing but a tiny flame suffocated in his clenched fist. Whatever it might be, it is what he has chosen. There may never be another dawn, only this place where the sky and the sea collide and all falls under. Swaying on his feet, the wind rushing in his ears, he closes his eyes. 

The ship skims the water and a cold, bright light falls as they penetrate the curtain, which seals one world from another, a savage light, roaring like the heart of a waterfall, a cry like the babe broken free into startled life. Beauty bursts over him, making him feel afraid. He doesn’t remember why he has come. Green shores and white sand dazzle his eyes, glassy towers pierce the arching sky. He searches, but he is lost. He staggers to find his feet, but they have no strength to hold him and as his knees buckle, he lays his hands over the pale, slender feet of an elf and drowns in an ecstasy of oblivion. 

The first things he sees on waking are a green courtyard and a fountain, spilling music into a round pool. He breathes tentatively, as if for the first time and feels a lightness in his limbs. He raises a hand and brushes it against his mouth curiously, rediscovering his skin. He is enthralled by its unlined softness, all the history in that hand still living but transcribed to youth. He bends his leg with ease and feels his knee spring back eagerly as he kicks the bed sheets. He laughs, but still he is unsure. Sitting up, he looks down as the sheet falls away and marvels at the sight of his own body, young and firm and shivering at the touch of the soft breeze and the silken sheet. He runs his hands down his skin and thrills at his own caress. Dimly, he is aware that there is something he must do – but he cannot remember what it is. Standing up, unashamed of his nakedness, he walks to the open archway that leads into the garden. 

Wading through the warm, flower studded grass, he approaches the fountain and dips his hands into the pool. Sensing its purity, he drinks from the cup of his hands, long runnels of water spilling down his tensed thighs as he swallows. 

It is so quiet. The water music is the only sound to be heard. There is no birdsong and no wind in the treetops, no crickets chirping, no bees droning busily amongst the flowers. 

Sometimes it seems to Sam that he can hear soft voices conversing together, laughing and whispering in collusion, but he can’t be certain. 

When his thirst has been quenched, Sam looks around the glorious confines of the garden and smiles. 

Wandering back into the bedchamber, he finds a white tunic and a pair of soft breeches laid ready upon the bed. As he slips on the fine garments, he feels a reluctance to cover the new miracle of his skin, but the cloth is so soft and so light it is no burden to wear. There is a bowl of ripe peaches set upon the table and Sam takes one as he passes, closing his eyes against the surge of pleasure as he bites down into golden nectar. Just a taste of the rich fruit appeases his appetite and he lays the rest down on the stone wall, desiring his hands free to explore amongst the flowers. 

Bending down, he almost swoons with the fragrance of the lillies, gasping under his face as he leans into the borders, the sun warm on his back. There are flowers here the like of which he has never encountered and the deeper he looks, the more he discovers. There are little miracles that have survived the ages in this quiet corner of eternity, content to lie silent beneath the lillies and the roses – the hollyhocks and the delphiniums – thriving in the shadows. The sweetness of this air grants life to all that exist here. Sam frowns, it seems unnerving - this disruption to the great wheel, the halting of the reaping and replenishing of the land that he accepted from birth as the order of things. Everything in this place seems enshrined in its brief moment of perfection and spring flowers bloom side by side with those that rise in the autumn. 

He troubles over this a moment and then it is forgotten. 

When dusk falls, Sam returns to his bedchamber and discovers that a table has been laid for ready for him, platters of fruit and cheeses, round loaves of bread and bowls of dark green herbs. There is one chair set at the table and he sits down upon it, reaching out to drink from the goblet that appears before his hand. It contains a honeyed wine that sends his senses reeling and fills his blood with warmth. The food is good and he eats hungrily, every mouthful a sensuous pleasure to be relished. When he is full, he leaves the table and stands to watch the stars burning as he strips off his clothes, the night air warm against his skin. He has been fulfilled in body and mind and yet there is restlessness within him that he cannot name. 

Turning back into the shadowed room, he lies down upon the bed, pulling a thin sheet over him as he settles his head on the soft pillow. The doorway is open to the night, the white curtain glimmering with silver thread, a single moth circling in the eye of the high ceiling, sending itself mad courting the reflection of the moon. Although the chamber is drowned in thick, impenetrable darkness, Sam fears no intrusion, for it seems that no harmful thing could exist in this world. But just as this thought falls through his consciousness, he hears a sound that makes his heart stop. 

Beating wings and hasty footsteps are bearing through the dark, approaching his chamber from within, and his heart is filled with alarm. Sitting upright and drawing his knees against his chest, Sam listens as the rushing noises reach his chamber. Sam’s nerves are strung tight, shocking his somnolent body into startled awareness as he watches and waits. There is a soft creak as a section of the panelling is pushed away from the far wall, uncovering a hidden door from which a bright light is seeping. Sam winces and closes his eyes, sealing the darkness. 

The door closes, feathers rustle in the darkness and then there is silence. 

The bed shifts beneath Sam and he curls up defensively, his body trembling. A sharp fragrance is in the air and a warm breeze stirs the curls on his head. He feels a light touch on his shoulder. It is warm and considering, almost reflective. Sam bites down on his lip and tries not to display his fear. 

“You’re afraid…” 

The voice is low and musical, and it drops into Sam’s soul like a warm chord. 

“Don’t be afraid…” 

Sam opens his eyes, but the darkness is so deep he cannot penetrate it. “Who are you?” Sam whispers, his voice quavering as light fingers trace his lips with restless curiosity. 

“Shhhh….” A finger is pressed against Sam’s lips and he quietens. “You are my guest and you are welcome to enjoy all that can be offered. Be at ease…there are some questions that cannot be answered.” 

Sam falls back against the pillows, finding himself entranced by the gentle voice and the warmth of the strangers skin as he straddles Sam’s hips and bends to lay his soft cheek against Sam’s chest, listening intently as he draws slow circles around Sam’s heart with a light reverence that makes Sam’s heart constrict with longing. 

After a few moments, hot splashes fall against Sam’s skin and as Sam reaches blindly for the stranger’s face, he finds it wet with tears. 

“May I light a lamp?” Sam asks softly, his tenderly stroking fingers uncovering hard planes and soft curves and a flash of moonlight reflecting in wide, unblinking eyes. 

“You must know me only in shadow. Trust me, I ask nothing more…” 

“I want to see!” Sam sits up and holds onto the slender shoulders that curve under his hands, feeling the fragile bones flexing with restrained power. 

“No, love,” the stranger replies, fitting his lips against Sam’s own and tilting them slightly as if trying to fit together the last piece of a puzzle. “Only feel…”

Sam closes his eyes, intensifying the darkness into which he tumbles, spinning and flying, the air rushing dark with the beating of wings. 

 

**The Echo in the Mirror**

 

Another sun rises and surmounts the hill, hanging in suspended grace in a sky of cloudless blue. Once more, the flowers open their waxen petals and the trees cover themselves with blossom, white and pink. From some unseen shore, the sea moves in restless sighs. 

Standing in the arched doorway, Sam bites down into soft bread spread with honey as sweet and dark as if it had been stolen from the hive that very morning. Flexing his shoulders, he feels the supple pulling of his muscles beneath the skin. Sensing a slight ache between his shoulder blades, he leans back a little into the discomfort, feeling the pain at odds with the perfection of this eternal place with its never changing rhythms. Walking out into the garden, Sam looks for a fallen bloom on the grass or the drooping of the petals of a rose, but there is nothing out of place, for this day is simply the ghost of the first, revealed each morning in its blazing perfection, never to be marred, nor changed by weather or the disruption of mortal desire. 

Sam moves restlessly about the garden, trying to recapture a sense of the absorption he had felt the previous day, but he finds he is unable to appreciate the exquisite beauty of the flowers when he knows that they will never fade. Somehow the knowledge of their immortal state stirs an anxious query in his mind that will not settle. He sits down on the grass and looks for something to tend, but no common weeds grow in this black soil and all is well ordered and blooming. A small cry of alarm rises in his heart and he reels under the sun for it seems that there is nothing to tend. 

Feeling once more the dull aching, he lies down on the grass and closes his eyes, suddenly overcome with weariness. He sleeps heavily, a drowsy forgetfulness settling on him as if he has swallowed a draught. As he drifts into sleep, his fingers brush the grass and he imagines they are a thousand tiny feather points moving to and fro. 

When he wakes, the sun has descended in the sky and long shadows lie over the grass. Sitting up, the music of the fountain calls to him and he rises and walks across to stand before the cool, white marble, breathing in the fragrance of the clear water as it dances over the still pool. The water contains many things – the reflected indigo of the deepening dusk – the first star kindling – the leaves of the apple trees moving in the gentle breeze. He looks harder, deeper. He sees a face and he wonders at it. It looks back up at him and recognition stirs in his heart. Puzzled, he reaches out and touches his fingers to the reflected mouth, watching how the images shatters and re-forms, complete and yet subtly altered, for the mouth is softer now and the eyes look uneasy. Unbearably slowly, Sam touches his own mouth and watches how the mirrored face complies – stroking its mouth and letting those fingers drift and fall with the movements of his own hand. 

He knows this face and yet he hasn’t seen it for many years and to see it so plainly now stirs a longing in him for something or someone indefinable, and yet utterly rooted in his soul. He searches deeper, a desperate and disordered quest for an unknown face. There is nothing more than fragments – a green hill, golden flowers bursting into a black sky, and a fair-haired child laughing. Each image strikes a chord within him and yet he knows that none of them is the one he seeks. The pictures fade and all that is left is the loneliness of his own image.

Returning to his chamber he finds that the table has been laid for dinner. A scarlet cloth embroidered with golden pomegranates is covered with platters of soft summer fruit and white cheese, green salad and crisp bread still warm from the oven. There is rich red wine and a pitcher of clear cold water. Sam eats until his hunger is satisfied, drinking deeply of the water and the wine, for he finds his thirst is almost unquenchable. 

The night is settling into the room and, as he dines, branches of candles appear in every corner, flooding the room with soft golden light. As he watches the slow progression of the night, Sam is at once consumed with anticipation for what is to come. There is a fear in his heart for the strangeness and the darkness, but the memory of sweet words carried on breath as fair as any rose, sends quivers of desire racing through his body and he marvels at his swift and urgent response. Covering himself with a soft green tunic, he lies down on the white sheets and attempts to close his eyes, hoping for some of the blissful forgetfulness that had shielded him for so many long hours. But now it seems he is exposed once more and his body feels tremulous and strange to him as he senses the powerful beating of his own blood throbbing in his flesh. 

So it is that he finds himself almost relieved when at last the candles gutter and die and the silence is broken by the sound of beating wings. 

Come to me, oh come to me. He bears the dark trembling in his soul and the flinching of his body as the sound grows deafening and the panelling slides aslant, scalding him with the spear of light that frames the black outline of the beautiful yet fearsome form. Crying softly, Sam turns his head into the pillow, fear already giving way to desire as the light is swiftly expelled and the wings cease their heavy beating to still and fold like hanging scythes. 

Sam sits upright against the pillows and stares into the darkness. 

“Come here – come to me…” Sam says aloud, stripping off his tunic and holding out his hand. 

The bed shifts as the stranger crawls forwards on his hands and knees, his breath a subtle disruption on the air. Sam can feel the softness of his skin as his legs brush against the inside of Sam’s thighs. Sam shivers at the sweet contact and, feeling his way through the thick darkness, he pulls the other close against his chest. Skin against skin, as soft and supple as silk they brush warm lips together slowly in a hypnotic dance that makes Sam burn within. Gripping shoulders grown firm with tangled muscles, he traces back to where the wings hang, slender as pale crescent moons. 

“May I touch them?” Sam whispers against those shapely lips. 

“You may…” 

Sam smiles with pleasure and reaches back, drawing their bodies closer as he runs fascinated fingers through soft billowy feathers, and deeper to where they lie thick and long, overlaid in patterns more intricate than any fine tapestry. These feathers are slick as if with oil and they seem to tremble as he brushes them, making his lover moan and shift against him. Sam gasps and then laughs lightly, delighted.

“It feels good?” Sam says, stroking down more firmly, his fingers tracing along the thick spine of a long flight feather. 

“Yes, yes, it feels…I can’t describe…” 

Sam strokes until he feels the delicate spine bending against Sam’s hand, as he struggles to suppress a cry of ecstasy. “Sam!” 

Sam stops and stills, his heart pounding, his body on fire with need. “What did you call me?” he asks.

The strange creature in his arms seems to grow smaller and slighter and he draws a shuddering breath. “I shouldn’t have…I was warned…” 

“What?” Sam whispers, drawing him close so that their mouths are barely an inch apart. “What is it?”

“I cannot say,” he breathes and all at once, there is no other word that can pass between lips parched for want of kisses and hungry mouths stifle words with urgent pleas of tongue and teeth. 

When they part, Sam’s lips are wet and full and feel heavy as if coated with honey. Licking them slowly, he traces the stranger’s face with his fingertips, exploring the firm hard contours of his face at odds with the wide, soft eyes with their dusky lashes that lie so heavy on his cheeks. The lips he has memorised with his own, and he knows that they are fuller and lovelier than any flower. 

“What are you?” Sam whispers, tracing down a gently heaving chest, over hard nipples and startled breath. 

“As you are, no more nor less…” he replies softly, dark curls hanging low into his eyes. 

Sam shakes his head. “You are nothing I’ve ever known,” he says. 

His lover seems to scream softly and Sam covers his mouth tenderly with a deep kiss as he pulls them both down onto the bed, smothering the tremors of his pain. 

“It will be all right, won’t it?” Sam asks as they roll onto their side. “All will be well.”

He feels hands curling around his chest and stroking the tender skin on his back. 

“Trust me…” the voice whispers and Sam melts as a warm mouth moves over his belly and covers his aching flesh. 

Terrible pleasure sears his skin as he feels the new awakening of his body under its master’s tongue. His feet curl and flex and his arms spill out onto the bed in complete supplication. Moans and cries echo in the quiet chamber and he is barely aware that the sound is issuing from his own tight throat. Light fingers stroke his hips, his heart, the soft skin inside his trembling thighs. 

“Now!” he hisses between his teeth, holding back a flood of fire so immense it is almost painful. 

When he is taken, he cries sharply and grips handfuls of feathers in both hands, sending them fluttering and beating in hasty recoil. He feels the heat within sharply against the snow cold feathers that fill his hands and he nearly breaks under the wild beauty of it. 

“Sam…” 

The name penetrates him fully and he grasps the dark curls between his clutching hands and holds him steady as he arches within. 

“My name?” Sam gasps. “Tell me, please, I need…”

Reflected moonlight kindles in his lover’s eye as he stills and murmurs, “Yes.”

Sam falls back onto the pillows and watches as white wings unfurl and hasten to join the beating of slender hips and hands clasped tightly against the bed clothes. He stares in amazement, unravelling under each soft brush of wind against his heated flesh. He comes undone without touch, under the rhythm of soul deep thrusts and arching spines, and the ripping of the air. 

**The Glass Mountain**

Sam slept deeply and woke startled by the sun, amazed that he had allowed himself to slip away and lose his hold on the night. Opening his hands, he finds them full of feathers. 

The ache has lessened a little but has been replaced by an irritating unsettled itching that drives him against the doorframe, arching his back and rubbing like a flea bit cat. Again, the day is dazzling – the roses are in the peak of their perfection and the sea murmurs to itself. But Sam feels different today; suddenly he is curious as a child and longing for answers to all that bemuses him. He craves new delights -other gardens, other rooms, other faces.

Walking around the garden, he finds that all ways are closed to him, for bordering the space is a high wall of mellow golden stone that blinds him to what lies without. He puts his hands to the warm stone and pushes, as if he might soak through like light, but there is no lenience and he soon turns away in frustration. 

His eyes fall on the fountain and he is almost wary as he accepts its seductive call. Watching the shadowy pictures form, he is so eager, he nearly loses concentration and the water seals up as if closing its wings. Then he quietens his heart and waits, staring into the reflection of the withering sun, trying not to look as the water begins to stir, startling his memory with images that strike lost chords within him for which he has no name. This time he sees deeper, and bends over the water so low his curls dip into the pool, floating like weeds. 

_There is a garden full of trees and flowers and a house dug into a hill and when he enters through the door, he knows the way down the passage and recalls each new room before he sees it with his eyes. Strangely, he also has a memory of the smell – earth and beeswax, old leather and ink. He is almost running, but when he reaches the kitchen he seems to halt on his heels and stares, for there is someone there, standing at the hearth, reading carelessly as he throws on fuel, his narrow back and waist clad in a shirt as soft and white as swan’s down. Sam thinks him beautiful before he has even seen his face. He knows. He begs him to turn and when he does so he raises his eyes from his book and smiles. A flood of joy fills Sam’s heart and he drags his fingers over the water._

“What is your name?” he whispers. “I know you … I know you…”

And then the picture is ringed with circles of light and gradually dissolves away. Sam’s hands plunge into the cold water, as if to grasp it before it is gone, but there is nothing he can do, for it is lost and his question remains unanswered. Yet the memory of the face remains and the lingering love that dances within him relentlessly, making him mad. 

As dusk falls into night, Sam makes his decision. He drinks deeply of the dark wine and shudders to think of what he must do. He knows cannot continue with this deception, he longs for clarity - he must look into the face – he must see. He wants it with a desperation that frightens him and he cannot resist. 

Finding a candle and a spark, he hides them under the pillows. Then he lies down upon the bed and waits. A disquiet stirs and rears as he feels the extinguishing dark enveloping him once more, but his mind is set and pays no heed. His hand tightens around the candle as the tearing, pounding rhythm rends the air and almost shatters his resolve. But before he can weaken, he sits bolt upright on the bed and readies himself, closing his eyes against the blinding spear of light as the panelling is slid aside. 

“I am here, my love.”

Something keens in Sam’s heart, shouting at him to pay it heed and yet he covers his ears and drags a breath into his lungs, daring his hand to strike the spark. A soft touch brushes his neck, a warm mouth travels over his ear, whispering, making him bend like a reed. He closes his eyes and groans as he is straddled and pushed gently back against a mound of downy pillows. 

“Say my name,” Sam whispers. “Please…”

There is a moment’s silence as his lover runs cool fingers down Sam’s chest, as if  
considering his request.

“Sam,” he says, at last, his voice edged with uncertainty. 

Sam repeats the name over and over until it is nothing more than a sigh. “It belongs to that place in the fountain doesn’t it? The garden and the house in the hill?”

He is almost begging, but the other is silent. “What harm can come from telling the truth?” Sam asks, running urgent, beseeching fingers through dark wind blown curls. 

“You have no idea…” he gasps, flinching and moaning as Sam gently uncovers and strokes each tiny velvet furred comma, hips darting forwards and then bowing backwards as Sam’s hands move to glide down over long, slick spears of quivering desire, vibrating with suppressed power. 

“Tell me” Sam sits up and kisses him deeply and then draws away, resolute and bold. “Show me!” he whispers, striking a light and kindling it quickly in the curved palm of his hand. 

As he thrusts the candle forwards, a golden light illuminates the winged creature in all his fearsome beauty, wings outspread, white and lined with palest rose, the light passing through each feather and staining his startled skin, curling dark into the curve of his neck, flung and twisted in vulnerable desire. Sam stares into the face he desired with appalled admiration, looking deep into forbidden eyes, dilated and dark and ringed with a blue the piercing shade of the eternal sky. Sam clutches at the raven curls as if he might be able to capture such wild and fleeting beauty, even as his heart mutters of cold deception, his hands stilling the thrilled feathers that seem to be screaming under his restraining grasp. 

“I know you! I know you, don’t I?” he whispers, transfixed and unable to draw away. 

“I must go!” 

“No. Wait…” Sam tries to pull him back but the great wings are beating fast now, feathers tearing and fluttering down like snow as he breaks away from Sam’s tight embrace, stirring a dark wind that knocks the breath from Sam’s lungs and tears the skin from his hands. 

“Farewell, Sam. Remember me,” he says, his voice hard with painful regret as he circles in the air, his body curling up as if it would hide itself in the shelter of its concealing wings. 

“I don’t even know your name – tell me that at least!” Sam cries, the air filled with snowy feathers that cling to his fevered body as he races out into the night, following his desire in a senseless chase, as foolish as trying to catch a butterfly in his hand. 

Turning once in mid flight his beautiful, terrible master shakes his head sadly and sheds a tear that falls to the ground in a shard of glass. Sam picks it up and watches as it turns back to water and is lost. 

“Find me and you shall know it,” he says, his voice gentle now as if with resolution. 

Sam looks up and watches his love fly away into the cold clutch of the stars, spiralling upwards until he is nothing more than a moth dancing around the moon and then he is gone and Sam is left utterly alone. 

Wild with anger and pain, Sam runs back into the chamber and throws himself bodily against the chamber walls, scrabbling at the panelling in search of the hidden door. His fingernails leave deep scores in the wood, his fingers are red raw, yet he finds no way out and eventually collapses into sleep - a huddled pool of lifeless flesh and tear soaked feathers. 

When he wakes the following morning, he finds that the painful agitation between his shoulder blades has subsided and he grieves over it sorely, for with that loss comes a wave of nauseous pain of remembrance. He knows that he has betrayed his love and this knowledge is almost more than he can bear. In his grief he crawls over to the bed and curls naked on top of the quilt, shivering until can feel no sensation but mortal cold and the last words that fell from the lips of the creature that held him in thrall. 

_Find me and you shall know it…_

Sam’s spirit grows agitated and impatient for it senses that there is something to be done. Despite his body’s despond, he rises and washes his face in the basin, being careful not to look at his own image in the water, for he fears it will appal him. 

Forcing himself to eat of the remains of last night’s meal, he tries not to think too hard on what he must do, but methodically prepares his body, dressing himself in a fine tunic of red cloth and drinking long and deep of the water in the golden pitcher, for he knows that he will no longer be served in this house. 

A task has been set before him and he will fulfil it, should he die in the attempt. He knows this with such certainty, that he almost smiles as the door slips open of its own accord, laying bare the way forwards. 

The world is more magnificent than Sam could ever have imagined. Emerald green meadows, studded with silver flowers, roll down to the shores of the shining sea that breaks and rolls across pearl white sand, so soft under his feet it is as if he walks on cloud. Beyond are hills and woods, mountains and lush valleys. All is silent except for the song of the sea.

Sam walks under the hot sun and under the cold stars. He feels the shadow of the night passing over his head like a great bird, shielding him for a while from the dull heat of the dazzling sun. As he strides over the banks of shallow rivers and under the dappled serenity of oak trees, ageless and secretive as the earth that bore them, he sings songs that seem to hold within them a lost meaning that Sam struggles to perceive. If he sings he can forget that there is no bird song in the woods and no music in the running river. 

One day he walks so far he comes to a great city of elves. This city is made of a white stone that is dazzling to the eye and Sam can hardly bear to pass close against the outer walls that circle it. To the east of this place is a plain as wide as the sea, bordered on all sides with a great forest of tall and stately trees that grow so close they cannot be penetrated. At the edge of the plain is a mountain of glass. It rises so high into the air it seems to prick the stars and as soon as Sam sees it he knows that this must be the place he seeks, for it is very high and very lonely and seems to harness a sadness that doesn’t belong to this world. The very air is woven of it and it rings in Sam’s ears with a plaintive song that ceases neither night nor day. 

Twelve days and twelve nights Sam passes under the shadow of those old and haunted trees, neither eating nor sleeping, his feet walking in a ceaseless pace that has long ago fallen into a trance.

 _He dwells in a house inside a hill where the fragrance of ripe apples fills the air and the scratching of a pen in the quiet study makes him pause and smile as he passes through on his way from the garden, his arms full of fruit, over flowing, blessed._

Coming to the foot of the glass mountain at the breaking of a new morn, he walks around the great root of it, scouring the sheer, cold sides for a way inside. He presses and pounds, searing his hands on the icy glass, but it is all in vain, for there is no way in. He looks up at the spear of glass, luminous and impenetrable, beautiful and cruel as winter. Falling down onto his knees, he collapses in exhaustion and pain, the gentle sunlight breaking upon the crystalline spires making them glitter and dance, his mind unravelling slowly…. 

_There is another mountain, but this one is not made of glass. It is made of fire. It is gaping and wounded and a cruel red tide is spewing from its mouth. The air is painful to breathe, dark and choking. He holds a small weight in his arms, so slight it might be nothing more than a bundle of cloth. Looking down, he shifts a little and brushes away a grey dusting of ash, revealing dark curls grown long and tangled. He tucks a curl away, tidying and tending. He is amazed by the weight of his happiness that swells and grows even here in this terrible place, where darkness and fire are hurrying to consume all living things that lie in their path. Somewhere far away, on the very edge of the world, he can hear the slow beating of wings and hope stirs blind and eager, as he tucks up closer to the one he cherishes, lifting his blackened face tenderly and looking into a listless gaze that passes over him as if it is seeing into other worlds._

_Sam smiles for he is beautiful and he has been released…_

_“Frodo…”_

The mountain shudders and shifts, groaning as if with relief, as a section of its immense wall crumbles away, revealing stairs that wind up and up to where an arched door has been carved into the heart of the great edifice. Sam struggles to his feet and dives inwards and upwards, his feet slipping and sliding, his heart pounding and his body throbbing once more with an insistent tugging pain. When he reaches the door, he pounds upon it calling, “Frodo, Frodo, Frodo!” until his voice is broken and hoarse.

The door gives way under his fisting hands and seems to melt into water and disappear altogether as if it had never been. Sam looks around in bewildered astonishment. He is standing in a high vaulted chamber, with many windows that look out onto the sparkling sea, so wide and tilting, he feels almost unbalanced. In the centre of the room is a long, stately bed, carved with birds of paradise. Many books line the walls, slender volumes written in a strange language, their spines edged with gold. Piles of them lie beside the bed as if someone has been idling away the hours, resting before a chill hearth, which burns with a heatless flame. Spinning on his heels, Sam looks up at the high curling roof and, feeling a little dizzy, spies dark little niches carved into the stone just wide enough to hold a body poised and perched. There must be a magnificent view of the stars at night, for the roof is ripped open to the elements and through it now he can catch a glimpse of impenetrable cloudless blue. 

Suddenly as Sam turns once more to contemplate the lonely chamber, he senses that he is not alone and slowly he turns, his body fluttering with anticipation. 

The power of speech is vanquished by the perfect form that stands before him. In a shadowed alcove he waits, poised, like a marble statue made flesh, wings folded, sleek and shining, many hued, as if such beauty could not help but make more of itself, over spilling down his back. 

For a moment, Sam dare not approach and he trembles when he recalls the paths his hands have travelled across such lustrous skin, which looks as cold as snow and yet Sam knows to be full of fire. Gazing entranced, he walks closer, step by breathless step, struggling to perceive how he could have forgotten his Frodo. 

Standing before him, Sam opens his mouth to speak, his soul filled with words of terrible remorse but Frodo smiles and shakes his head, covering Sam’s mouth with whispering, hesitant kisses and drawing him into the throbbing heat of his wing, turning him close against his heart. 

“Frodo…” Sam whispers, tears running hot and fierce as he pulls away, his face brushing blind against startled feathers.

Sam sways for a moment on his feet and sensing his pain, Frodo bears him up into his arms and carries him to the bed. For a moment, Sam marvels at his strength but then he thinks no more.

Entranced, he lies down with his love and wonders at the layers of memory that lie between them, overlaid like the feathers that brush his unveiled skin, as Frodo tenderly undresses him. Curious and desiring fingers are stroking him to full awakening and fill him with an awed and wondering disbelief that he could feel so much more in this world than he ever felt in life. 

With exquisite care, Sam turns his lover, smoothing and gentling ruffled feathers, his mouth moving restlessly over rounded curves and sinking to drop light kisses against trembling skin. Frodo writhes and whimpers beneath him, pressing his hips into the sheets and desperately trying to still his quivering wings. Sam is slow and patient, tending with his tongue and exploring with his eyes until, with sudden and breathless ease, he plunges and sinks into warmth, his face falling amidst sheaves of white feathers, which poise and tremble in expectant tension, awaiting the moment of release as Sam moves in rhythm with the pounding of the sea. 

It seems it will never come and both are half blinded when at last the searing pleasure peaks and Frodo’s wings clench and part in pinioned ecstasy as his head tilts back and he cries out long and clear, his arms shuddering as he struggles to hold up his own weight. Sam tenses as he feels the powerful pulses and joyful arching shouts that spiral upwards to the vaulted roof, where the birds are rejoicing in a cacophony of song. 

He hardly hears it, all he can hear is the clamour and roar of the air as they ascend; two pairs of wings beating and cleaving together, shedding feathers, rose pink and gold which fall, twisting and twining in the air, before resting at last in soft and shuddering heaps upon the empty bed.


End file.
